Proxy
by concretya
Summary: Right after the events of Bunker Hill, Harper struggles with memories of Earth and Brendan. When he talks to Andromeda and finally to Dylan, everyone learns something. Oneshot.


"There you go, Rom-doll," Harper told the walls as he pulled himself away from the wiring. "All fixed, and while I appreciate that you gave those Nietzschean bastards hell for me, next time try and do it without impaling yourself on their bone-blades. Next time, it'll be harder to repair."

"But you can do it, of course." Andromeda's holographic AI appeared in front of him, quoting, with only a modicum of sarcasm, what he always said and would undoubtedly say now. "Because you're a genius."

Harper paused for a moment, and Andromeda could sense that he dropped his eyes to look into space far, far away. "Right," he said finally, without any enthusiasm. "Right, I'm a genius."

"Hmm." She watched him—well, her hologram' s eyes were directed towards him, though in reality her internal sensors took in data from all areas equally—but didn't get a response. "Harper, is something wrong?"

He threw her a dirty look.

"Harper, is this about Earth?" She waited, but he still didn't respond. Of course, his failure to respond with a request that she go away meant that she was well within warship morality to press the issue. "Harper, my avatar was there with you, I've seen her memories."

"Yeah? So?"

It was Andromeda's turn to not respond.

"Look, if you want to talk, Andromeda, fine, but _you _do the talking. So you saw Earth. Great for you. So tell me why you care, why you're trying to make me feel better." _There's no strategic value_, he almost added bitterly, but stopped himself. What he had said before was true; she was a warship, it was simply how she was built. He could understand that, and not fling that comment back at her again.

"Harper… you're an excellent engineer. One of the best I've ever had. And when my avatar saw Earth, I just realized how… statistically improbable it was, for you to come this far. There's no need for you to be ashamed at returning to the _Andromeda_. In fact, it would even be logical for you to feel some pride." She knew that what she was saying was true, of course, but she also knew from all her records of her human crews that it didn't matter about _need _and _logic_. Guilt might not be a necessary response, but it was still a likely one.

"Alright, that's it. I'm sick of this," Harper snapped, and began angrily stuffing his tools back into his tool-belt. "Nobody gets it. Nobody. Not even Beka, so why should I expect an antique to?"

Andromeda felt a twinge of hurt at his reference to her as an "antique," but she knew that in normal circumstance, Harper thought the world of her, and she couldn't fairly expect _normal circumstance _when it came to her engineer right now. "I don't get _what?"_ Okay, so maybe she let her offense show in a tiny edge to her voice. "If there's something we don't understand, maybe you should try explaining it."

"This! Everything!"

"How illuminating."

"The whole Earth issue, okay? 'Earth doesn't have any strategic value.' 'I can't believe you're from Earth.' 'It's amazing that you could make it this far.' Not just you, Rommie, I hear it all the time."

"What's wrong with that?"

"What's _wrong _with it?!" Harper gestured frantically at her with a nano-welder, and Andromeda was glad she had a hologram as well as android. Just as long as the overwrought engineer didn't drop the welder into her systems. "What's _wrong _with it? I didn't get out of Earth on _genius_, Andromeda, I got out by being a piece of shit and ditching my family, then getting lucky with Beka and the Maru. Bobby didn't even know or care that I liked engineering, he just wanted a body to do the heavy lifting. Genius didn't matter for shit down there! Half the people could awe an original Commonwealth commander if they got a chance, they're not _stuck _because they ain't _smart."_

"Harper, I don't think people ever meant—"

He glared at her and turned his back, and she stopped. Her sensors could still pick up his face, of course, but her core personality had been trained to filter out the information a normal human would not have received, in ship-to-crew moments like this. A politeness for her crew, her function of psychological beneficiary.

"Brendan was a genius," Harper finally said quietly, and Andromeda waited. "He didn't ever brag about it—I don't think he even realized it—but he was. You know my little speech?" He gave a brief, ironic laugh. "Every word of it, I learned from Brendan. Sure, people all over Earth still remember bits of history, but Brendan _really _knew. He _cared _about the history. He told me about the American Revolution. Bunker Hill. Even stuff he didn't have to care about—about Johannesburg. He _knew _stuff, Rommie. He cared about it, so he learned it. And used it."

He finally turned around to face the hologram again, eyes suspiciously red. But he still wasn't quite looking _at _her, so Andromeda waited.

"You know, I used to not try. Not ask questions or look for information. Brendan would always tell me what I needed to know. And more. Stuff that nobody but he cared about."

Andromeda risked a tentative, understanding smile. "_That _sounds like a family trait," she said softly.

The young man all but ignored her, continuing on as if she hadn't said anything. At her comment, though, his eye flicked towards her, and this time they stayed focused there. "I can only imagine what Brendan'd get up to up here. The universe wouldn't know what hit 'em. Not even Dylan. But he wouldn't come. I tried to get him to come, and he wouldn't."

"No," Andromeda said. "He wouldn't. But_ you_ came back."

"Yeah, well, I guess I wasn't 'part of the fire.'"

"No. You're not. You're my engineer. And apparently, my blooming historian."

Harper snorted. "Yeah. Right. You heard my version of the Battle of Witchhead." And with that, he left.

Andromeda sighed. Her engineer had left his toolbelt on the deck, a sure sign that something was still wrong. She did a quick scan to find where Harper was headed, then dematerialized and reappeared in Dylan's quarters.

* * *

"This is Bunker Hill, signing out." 

"This is Bunker Hill, signing out."

"This is Bunker Hill, signing out."

He sat on the Obs deck, playing that very last clip from the flexi over and over again. Bunker Hill. Bunker Hill. Even if he had wanted to stop, he didn't know if he could. His finger was on autopilot as it pressed the "replay" button over and over, and he felt somewhat as though his brain would short-circuit if he tried to disconnect his thoughts.

Well, someone else did that for him. A large hand reached down and took the flexi. Harper turned. Dylan was towering above him, scrutinizing the flexi as if he had never seen it before. Harper sighed, drew his feet onto the chair and knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

"I can see the family resemblance," Dylan said, and sat down next to Harper. "Rommie say so, too."

"Yeah, well, I looked even more like him when I was wearing rags and blood."

"Harper…" Dylan said, not knowing quite where to go. Andromeda had only told him to talk to his engineer, nothing more. "Well, you're his cousin, and my crew… I'm proud to have that connection with Brendan Lahey."

Harper looked back at the table, and Dylan wondered if now would be a good time to leave, or if Andromeda would simply come after him again.

Then Harper spoke quietly. "You woulda liked him, Boss. I tried to get him to come."

"I'm sure I would have. I like him already just from this broadcast. He cares about his cause."

"Yeah. Yeah, he does. And it's even more obvious in person. I mean…he knew. He knew everyone was gonna die. He knew that they knew, too. And he still did it." He swallowed. "When he wouldn't come, he said he was a part of the fire." He paused, but when the older man didn't say anything, just watched silently and sincerely, he continued. "But, you know… he didn't let it carry him away. He made it seem like he always knew exactly what he was doing, somehow just _knew _that it would come out alright. And he made _you _feel that way too, when you were around him. He made sure you knew he cared about you. I… I told him what I'd never told anyone before. Not even Beka. He never had any problems saying what he meant. He never hesitated to say thank you, or tell you what you meant to him, or even yell at you if you deserved it." He smiled sheepishly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Apparently it's contagious, from how I'm going on."

"Well," Dylan said, "I may hate that Triangulum Measles came back, but _that _is one disease I'm glad is still around."

"In a lot of ways, he's a lot like you."

That shocked Dylan; it was one of the last things he ever expected to hear, considering the circumstances. First, there was the incongruity of it all, a Commonwealth Officer from Tarn Vedra being compared to a poor human from a slave planet three hundred years later. More importantly, though, was who was doing the comparing. He had just broken a promise that meant the world to the young man, who turned around and compared him to his family. In a good way. "Harper," he said, with deadly sincerity, after a long pause while he fumbled for a response, "I have never been more flattered in my life."

Harper shrugged. He didn't smile, but Dylan hoped he wasn't just imagining the tiny sliver of returning humor in the young man's voice. "In fact, in some ways, he out-Dylans even you."

"Out-Dylans me?"

"Well, you may be good at polite conversations with diplomats and fellow officers, but Brendan always manages to laugh even at my stupid jokes."

Now, finally, a smile. A crooked, tiny, half-a-smile, but a smile nonetheless. Harper got up from the counter and made for the door, mumbling something about having lost his toolbelt.

Dylan watched him go, his words still ringing in his ears. _He never had any problems saying what he meant. He never hesitated to say thank you, or tell you what you meant to him, or even yell at you if you deserved it. _The guilt, the broken promise, was gnawing at him; Dylan always had a hard time apologizing, and it just got harder the more he respected someone. _In a lot of ways, he's a lot like you._

"Harper," he finally said, when the engineer was at the doorway. "I'm sorry."

Harper froze. An apology… first he had been angry, then melancholy, and all the time a niggling part of him had wanted to demand an apology. He hadn't let it, and now, now it was dissolving. But what was he supposed to say? 'It's all right?' No, no, it wasn't alright, and Seamus would never forget. He _never _forgot. He never even forgave his parents for saving him, so how could he forgive Dylan?

But Brendan had wanted him to forgive his parents. And Brendan had always known there was no hope. Brendan _understood _things, understood people and history and revolutions just like Seamus understood machines. Brendan _knew _what must have happened. He would know that Dylan really was sorry. And he would forgive him.

Brendan Lahey wasn't here right now. Seamus Harper was. And just like Brendan took on the fight for his sister, Seamus would for Brendan.

_I'll be your proxy, cousin._ An internal smile at the word. Seamus had learned to use it to speak of programs and computers; a life he never would have guessed at when Brendan proudly flaunted his vocabulary in front of his younger cousin. Brendan knew it with the meaning of politics and revolutions and relationships. Seamus had lost that, for a while, but now he could reclaim it.

"Brendan's busy burning. But I'll forgive you for him."


End file.
